


holy gold

by stereonightss



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereonightss/pseuds/stereonightss
Summary: Here’s another one from the livejournal archive. <3





	holy gold

Ed’s mind is a powerful instrument, arcane or insane or both, that blows the doors off reality when he breathes, one-two six one-two, twice every minute, maybe less maybe more, and it goes a particular way. First his eyes go black and slide closed and his forehead opens up--he feels it that way--in six places, one for each color red-yellow-black-and-white-blue and the last, he thinks, can’t exist in just three dimensions. So he names it with four (it’s called we don’t talk about that) and conveys it with whatever turns the copper of his eyes Holy Gold, a color that Izumi scowls at. Hates. Words.

Alphonse is quiet, has been to the Sacred Place now and knows and looks at him through the shadow where his eyes would be, Holy Gold. He knows and thinks we don’t talk about that.

So he breathes the voice out of his mind, breathes out the words, the verbs and the constructs and sees instead a lot of vivid, moving colors that bend into world after world that he breaks with his unmatching fists balanced loosely in his lap. He has a choice. He can break worlds and slip through time like jelly or he can fool himself, touch his own psyche, make his brain release a natural-unnatural high. His favorites are the hallucinogenic sort; sometimes he puts himself in a world where everything feels good.

Sometimes he can’t tell when he’s dreaming or not. His heightened senses oversharpen the world until everything looks fake, a high-quality fabrication too simple and clean to be real. Exemplus qui accendit:

Roy has him furious on a heavy oak desk that gives way to a door that just gives way. Roy shoves him back hard, palm splayed wide on his solar plexus while he strikes a match, a match on the underside of Ed’s automail thigh. He makes a little round ball of flame that he eats up with the breadth of his spider-like fingers, lotus-like palms, and forces the brunt of this heat into Ed’s skin with his fingertips. Ed’s automail sizzles where Roy touches it and Roy winces, not unpleasantly. He places his scorched hand under Ed’s navel, on his svaditsthana chakra, and Ed’s alchemical training has taught him that the heat he’s feeling is a universal kind of love. It’s a ritual, simple and clean, free of guilt like a barbell weight at a misdirected, unmanageable lust. What they’re doing is criminal. When his eyes roll back in his head and his toes curl up and he chokes on the words in his throat it’s because he’s just doubled his chi by opening up to some other person, not because it makes him sweat, the way the Colonel commands him.

(It’s only in the waning afterglow that he--waxing poetic, prophetic, his awareness waxes and wanes--thinks about how elegant the Colonel’s wrists look crossed deliberately over his body as though to shield. The Colonel’s sticky chest rises and falls one-two six one-two behind him, absurdly broad. The air is acrid with the scent of them and he hates it, he feels like a child, he is a child in the arms of an uncle who took pity. Nothing is simple and clean anymore, he thinks this can’t be happening, and it isn’t but he wakes from his trance in the Colonel’s arms.)

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s another one from the livejournal archive. <3


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